


Coming to an Agreement

by saisei



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Anal Fisting, Armiger (Final Fantasy XV), Blackmail, M/M, Ring of the Lucii (Final Fantasy XV), Shovel Talk, Table Sex, Underage Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-18 10:48:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16993626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saisei/pseuds/saisei
Summary: Regis summons Ignis to a meeting.He knew what this was. He'd never let himself think he would actually be dismissed from his position, but he wished he'd prepared some... words of farewell. Not even a speech. Perhaps an apology. He hoped he wouldn't cry. He was too old for tears.





	Coming to an Agreement

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cordialcount](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordialcount/gifts).



Ignis had been summoned to audiences with the King in the past; infrequently, but as necessity warranted: to discuss Noct's schoolwork or his behavior, most often. Tonight's request came too late to work neatly into his schedule, and he'd had to leave school before his last class of the day to pick Noct up at school, take Noct home, prepare his dinner and make him do his homework as quickly as possible, and then return to the Citadel. He was still in his school uniform, though aside from the emblem on his jacket and the plain black loafers he was forced to wear he didn't think he looked terribly out of place.

He was buzzed in from the garage, but had to go through security again upstairs before being allowed to take the private lift to the residential floor. His name had been on the list, and he'd asked the guard how much time he'd had blocked off; Regis hadn't informed him. His heart sank when he was told three hours.

He tried to think of what had gone wrong, what he'd done wrong, what he was in trouble for. He wished that he could think of anything aside from the obvious, but he knew that Noct's grades were excellent; he hadn't been involved in any car accidents or altercations, or caught by the paparazzi playing video games during school hours. Ignis was glad he hadn't had time to eat dinner, with the way his stomach roiled with fear, his hands gone clammy.

He knew what this was. He'd never let himself think he would actually be dismissed from his position, but he wished he'd prepared some... words of farewell. Not even a speech. Perhaps an apology. He hoped he wouldn't cry. He was too old for tears.

He knocked, and Regis called for him to enter. Ignis shut the door behind him, and then locked it when requested. The king was alone, which was a mercy. Ignis didn't want witnesses to his fall. He bowed, low and stiffly formal, and waited by the door until he was summoned forward to stand before Regis' desk, by the window.

Regis rose from his chair and walked around to stand at Ignis' side. Ignis refused to fidget, but he couldn't abide doing nothing.

"Your Majesty." He tried very hard not to make it sound like a question. He'd give quite an awful lot not to have to bear answers.

Regis' personal laptop sat with sleek expensive malevolence at the center of the desktop. Wordlessly, Regis turned it around, showing Ignis the screen.

On one side, indiscreet text messages between Ignis and Noct; on the other, grainy video footage that had to have been shot, Ignis realized with numb resignation, from a camera concealed in Noct's apartment. Of course there were cameras. Of course the King would have been worried about the safety of his only child and heir. Of course Ignis had been an absolute idiot to have let Noct kiss him there.

He watched himself kiss back, remembered trying to remain restrained; he saw Noct climb into his lap, making him have to tilt his head back. On screen, here before his father, Noct ran his fingers through his hair.

Ignis had been quickly weaned of the habit of making excuses as a child. He was the older, he was the one responsible; should he fail to dissuade Noct of any wrongdoing, the consequences naturally and rightfully fell on him. Noct, as was proper for royalty, would in time develop a conscience that pricked when he knew his schemes would only land Ignis in hot water. Ignis in turn learned to bear his metaphorical scalds and burns without complaint.

Noct had confessed his feelings for Ignis a month ago, and Ignis had been trying to manage their relationship into a controlled crash ever since. Noct would not listen to reason: he didn't care that they were both still in school, or that Ignis was older and technically his servant. He _knew_ he'd have an arranged marriage with some politically-advantageous woman who'd be tasked with bearing him an heir. _And I will_ , Noct had argued. _You know I won't let Lucis or my father down. When the time comes, I'll be who I need to be._

They'd been talking in the car, with Noct in the passenger seat. He'd started crying, and Ignis had pulled over automatically into the nearest carpark. Ignis didn't know what to say, but he had a handkerchief and if he couldn't stop the tears at least he could clean them up.

"Tell me you don't like me, Specs," Noct had demanded, turning in his seat and glaring up through his tears. "That's all you have to say, not excuses. 'No, Noct, I don't like you.'"

Ignis had never made Noct cry before, and it wrenched his heart. He did like Noct, more than anyone else in the world. He opened his mouth without any words at the ready, and then closed it again when he remained tongue-tied.

Noct leaned up and kissed him, and Ignis kissed back because he still didn't know what to say, because he wanted to make Noct happy, because he loved him more than anything else in the world and because he needed to get Noct home. A happy Noct was a compliant Noct. Ignis was embarrassed, scared of being seen, and acutely cognizant of making one of the worst mistakes of his professional and personal life. But at the same time he was giving Noct what he wanted the most, and that was rare. It gave him a heady sense of relief and pleasure that somehow, he thought, made up for his lack of arousal or returned romantic interest.

He could and would not, however, attempt to save himself at Noct's expense by protesting that he'd be fine ending this ill-considered relationship. He'd made this bed, after all.

"My deepest apologies," he said, striving not to let his voice betray strain. "I – "

Regis watched, fingers tapping on the desk top, as Ignis struggled to complete that sentence. When he failed, Regis tapped the screen to freeze the video – on a terrible frame, showing Ignis' glasses askew, his tongue out, looking _lewd_. Ignis' cheeks heated with shame.

"How far has this gone?"

Ignis swallowed. "No further than," he indicated the computer, "this, I swear to you on the honor of my House."

"I'm not inclined to think of either you or your House as honorable right now," Regis said. Ignis hadn't known his voice could be that cold. "You haven't fucked him."

Ignis flinched. That was a word he'd never expected or wanted to hear from his king. "No, Sire." He was finding it hard to keep his breathing even, from the humiliation and the fear of what would come after.

"Nor has he fucked you."

"No, Sire."

"Mouth to genital contact."

Ignis longed for the floor to open up and let him fall right down into hell. "No, Sire."

" _Hand_ to genital contact."

That was aid with a hint of impatience that stopped Ignis from blindly repeating his mantra of denial. He wondered, in some agony, what other evidence Regis might have seen. "Only through clothes," he said now, "and never to... to completion."

"How very chaste of you," Regis said, with dry mockery.

"He is the crown prince." _Though you know full well I would not refuse him anything,_ a voice said at the back of Ignis' thoughts, rebellious and sullen, childish, _if he asked_. All of those kinds of sex, he supposed, in all their myriad forms.

"As you say. He is, indeed, the prince and heir to the throne."

Ignis shivered.

"And you are nothing but an employee who has forgotten his place. You were allowed to play together as children. Neither of you is a child now."

Ignis had nothing to fall back on except another parched, "I am so very sorry, Your Majesty."

"You'll be sorrier," Regis said, and spread his hands, as if holding an invisible orb.

Ignis didn't realize he was in pain, at first.

The sensation was so utterly overpowering that all the higher human functions of his body shut down, turning him into nothing more than a dying animal. His lungs burned, his vision spotted, he slid between consciousness and the Beyond as if the veil between them had been ripped aside.

He couldn't breathe. The vortex of dizziness utterly disoriented him, and his muscles spasmed as if he was being crushed in Titan's fist. His palms struck something hard and he forced open his eyes to slits, desperately looking for escape. His fingers on the cold marble floor were attenuated, dissolving, alien and ruined.

And then the spell lifted. Ignis sagged forward, arms unable to bear his weight, and he whimpered like a child as his teeth tore into his cheek, his face striking the floor. Something snapped, and he had a moment of absurd worry, thinking that his glasses had shattered. But then a different pain struck, meaty and physical, familiar agony. A broken bone, not the rending apart of his physical and spiritual being; he realized, as if his thoughts were encased in slow-moving syrup, that he was leaking blood onto the king's floor.

On the heels of that came mortification, and abject terror, and the pitiful, pathetic urge to curl up into a ball and cry.

He set his teeth against the violent shuddering of breath into burning lungs and collected himself painstakingly. _You are Ignis Scientia, oldest son and heir of Titus Scientia, advisor to Prince Noctis, servant to the Crown until formally relieved of that trust. Crawling becomes neither you nor your station._ On the third repetition he pushed himself up, sitting back on his heels. He dug his handkerchief out and pinched his bloody nose, wincing as the splintered bones jarred. Despite the inherent indignity of his position, his gaze shot instinctively to the king, who had seated himself in the armchair beside the desk, watching him with narrowed eyes. In the king's cupped hand, violet fire from the ring of the Lucii danced, a promise of further agony to come.

Ignis set one foot to the floor, bracing against vertigo, and Regis leaned forward.

"You needn't rise on my account."

Something in that low voice, both angered and amused, made the hair at the back of Ignis' neck stand on end, as if he'd walked into a winter gale. He was almost glad he was incapable of running, or else he would have, and Regis would – 

Regis would – 

He refused to let himself finish that sentence, but the answer was right before him, in crystal-colored flames.

"Here," Regis said, and with his free hand pulled something from the Armiger: a flask, doubtless some kind of curative potion. "Far be it from me to deny you succor." He swirled the liquid inside, and it was beautiful in the light of pure magic. Ignis wished he could just see the beauty, without the coiling of terror in his guts. "Though I will give you a choice, first. You may have this now, but nothing after the continuation of your... instruction, or you can exercise prudent restraint so that any further injuries will also be cured."

Ignis blinked back the tears that sprang to his eyes; he would not give Regis the satisfaction. Instead he asked, taking some small pride in the way he made his voice stay steady, "What would Your Majesty recommend?"

Regis smiled, and with a flick of his hand the flask disappeared.

"You might consider asking that question more," he said. "And displeasing me less. Come, then."

Ignis would not crawl; instead, he shuffled forward awkwardly on his knees, until he judged he was close enough. He didn't want to look up and meet Regis' eyes, but neither did he want to keep his head bowed. He just wanted to have his punishment and termination finished and done with, so he could – fuck. He had no idea what he could do with his life, if not serve the royal family. Private elocution lessons? Tutoring? He doubted anyone would trust him with their children, if he bore the black mark of having been dismissed by the king himself.

Perhaps he'd leave the city, go live in the wilds beyond. At least then his failure wouldn't haunt him as viscerally as it would in Insomnia, in sight of but barred from the Citadel.

A jolt of fire ran through him, and he jerked as his muscles went rigid. He tried to get one hand to his throat, as if that would somehow release the choke-collar of magic that kept him from breathing. And then, in the next instant, the fire washed away.

"Pay attention," he was told, and Ignis nodded fervently, gasping and wordless. "Noct doesn't know everything about the powers of this ring, and I will not burden him with that knowledge. Instead, I'll entrust that duty to you, as you seem to enjoy expanding your role as advisor in unorthodox ways." The king stood and walked past Ignis to clear the desk, setting the computer on the shelves behind. "Remove your clothing from the waist down, and come here." He patted the desktop. The ring tapped against the wood. Like a threat, Ignis thought, though he was finding it harder to clear his head and assess the situation.

He could get up. He could run. But Regis' words implied that Ignis would not be separated from Noct – banished – and that lit a feverish hope in his chest. He got one foot flat on the floor and set his palm on his knee, pushing down to shove to his feet. He was dizzy and his face throbbed, and the static of humiliation, fear, and pain made him feel inexplicably compliant. As if this were nothing but a nightmare that would dissipate with the dawn. He stepped out of his shoes and lined them up neatly. He undid his belt buckle and the top two buttons, hands shaking and clumsy, and with a push of his thumbs his trousers slid down to pool on the floor. He moved aside, the air on his bare legs cold, and bent to fold them and set them on his shoes. He wanted to ask if Regis had meant his socks and underpants as well, but what else would he have meant? He added those items as well, grateful that at least the tails of his shirt gave him some scant protection.

He crossed to the desk on legs as wobbly as noodles, and was told to bend over it, with his head on his arms. He did as he was told, despite the picture he was sure he made with his ass in the air; corporal punishment had been outlawed under the reign of Regis' grandfather, but Ignis was familiar with the concept. He'd been training for a position with Noct's Crownsguard, and he was sure he could bear whatever blows fell, if after that he was allowed to return to his regular duties.

He'd have to find a way to explain to Noct that they couldn't be in a relationship, which would be agonizing, but hardly impossible. 

He heard items being pulled from the Armiger, and barely managed not to twist reflexively away when a hand pressed hard at the curve of his lower back, pinning him like a beetle. A moment later, two wet fingers slid down the crack of his ass and without hesitation shoved inside.

The staticky terror made Ignis' thoughts white out again, as he was torn by the desperate need to get away from the pain and make this stop and the knowledge that he would not. He'd made the decision to bear this already.

"I see a brush with death is as good as foreplay for you," Regis said. His fingers worked diligently to push something cold and wet inside him. Ignis could feel the gel slip out, and could hear the grotesque squelching as more was applied. A third finger slipped in, and only then did Ignis think – fleetingly – about clenching down, trying to protect himself. But he was sure that would hurt more, and while this violation was a mild agony compared to the earlier assault, he couldn't bear thinking about making it worse. "Have you done this before?"

"No, Sire," Ignis said, and then to his shame, found words spilling from his mouth, punctuated by gulps of air. "Please, may I go home, I'll be good, I promise, I've learnt my lesson – "

"I haven't yet begun teaching."

Ignis was shivering so hard he was breaking out in a cold sweat, and he was sure he'd been stretched past his limits. After Noct kissed him and made it clear that he considered they were in a relationship, he'd done a certain amount of discreet research on sex between men. People could _tear_ down there; he'd worried about the pain and the risk and the shame far more than fantasized about the intimacy. He never wanted this.

He didn't know how many fingers were in him; too many to bear, and his body kept disobeying and tensing reflexively, instead of remaining relaxed and passive. He knew he was frustrating Regis, but he didn't know how to command obedience. Regis clicked his tongue in annoyance, and then there was another surge of the blinding, enervating, all-consuming agony that the ring inflicted.

When Ignis came back to his senses, his whole body was lax, and he was making a high, helpless noise into his arms like an animal being slaughtered. Then he became aware of the heavy, impossible horror of a fist clenching inside him. The hot queasy wrongness emanated, he was sure, from the ring, buried deep in him now, and he found it hard to stop whimpering. All he could think of was how much damage he was taking.

"In the old days," Regis said, his conversational tone jarring when Ignis was painfully conscious of the fingers clenching in his ass, the pressure of knuckles stretching him even further open, "traitors were executed like this. I'm sure you've studied the painting downstairs by Harcutt? We still have the tools in the armory – I recall an iron hook that was applied thus, used for evisceration." He twisted his hand, and Ignis imagined the ring scraping through wounded flesh, shredding him to ribbons. "Death took days by that method. My understanding was it served as an effective deterrent."

Ignis' mind was caught on the word _traitor_ , which made his heart twist and shrivel in his chest. "I would never," he said, and had to pause to gasp in air, "betray the Crown."

Regis rubbed his knuckles against a spot that made Ignis feel for a moment as if he was going to be violently sick. He panted through the nausea, and when he had it mastered he felt his body meet that sickening touch with unwanted, white-hot arousal. Tears flooded his eyes in distress. "Ignis... Ignis. You must understand, if I say you have – then you have. My word is law, and so on. You're not being very bright this evening. I hope you won't turn out to be one of those child prodigies who fades into mediocrity by adulthood. I had high hopes for you."

Ignis shuddered. He felt like a city under siege, and he needed his walls to hold. Attempting to defend himself would only invite further assault.

"But Noct likes you," Regis said, and pressed his free hand down at the small of Ignis' back. "And you are training as his Crownsguard. We should make that official, don't you think? It's common in the Kingsglaive to receive their connection to royal power through an ink potion – as Clarus and Gladio did. Magic under the skin. In the older and more direct method the ring is touched to a wound and the powers enter the blood directly. This is a kindness, Ignis," Regis added, and Ignis wanted to struggle despite knowing it was futile. "You won't be left with unsightly tattoos or scarring. Noct doubtless wouldn't want you if you were mutilated."

Ignis was gasping, both with fear and the desire to keep some of his dignity intact, but he hadn't had any point of reference for just how much pain he would be required to bear. With a clench and a twist of the king's hand, something inside was ripped asunder with such force that Ignis went up on his toes, blinded and deafened by agony and only knowing that he had to get away. He was dying – being ripped inside out by iron hooks so all his treachery spilled out around him.

And then he felt the power of the ring, a molten gold flow up his spine, unbearable and inescapable. On the tail of that new torment, he found himself facing the judgment of kings, who commanded him to be worthy, who looked down on him without mercy or compassion, who had denied death itself for centuries, that they might yet serve the needs of Lucis.

When they finally cast him aside, he drifted, floating in an empty place full of glittering blue shards, and his body was slack and useless so he ignored it. The ring cut its way out of his body as it had entered; his muscles spasmed in protest, but he observed this in a disconnected, scholarly way. Opening his eyes, he found the world sharper and brighter.

He felt... not precisely peaceful, but hardened in his resolve: his dedication to a higher purpose affirmed by the dead kings and the gods and the very stars above. They would guide him as he served Noct, unwavering. He would give Noct all he had and more. He would not falter, not with the access to power he had been granted. Already he felt the armiger, like a new sense awakened, and a tingle of magic restless deep under his skin.

What had not been reaffirmed was his devotion to the man wearing the crown. Regis was but one of over a hundred, and the ancestral kings saw only necessity, viewing all in terms of what was right according to the crystal's purity. They didn't care that Ignis' lifeblood was dripping out of him at a frankly alarming rate, or that his eyesight spotted with black spots that spread when he blinked. They cared about his fitness to bear his burdens, and Ignis felt the wave of their irritation go through him, as the king disappointed them with his still too-human needs. The Lucii had no use for love or lust.

"Straighten your legs," Regis said, with a sharp pinch to Ignis' thigh. "Stand on your toes."

The words echoed in Ignis' head, an unwelcome summons back to his body from that empty place; he struggled to understand. An order. Something he had to do, but what? He whimpered, knowing disobedience would be punished. He didn't want to hurt anymore.

A hand pressed at the back of his shoulders, forcing his head down, and with another pinch and a slap he raised up. This made him aware of his ass, stretched out and abused, hurting with deep dull throbs and occasional white-hot flashes that reminded him of the sting after a well-honed blade sliced through skin. He thought he was still bleeding. His knees shook so hard he concentrated on keeping his balance; Regis might rip him apart again if he failed. And then, fingers were shoved back inside him, holding him open as the potion flask was forced inside and broken. He screamed; kept screaming, weakly, even though part of him recognized the magic and knew he wasn't in danger – the reverse in fact – but his instincts refused to heed this knowledge. The curative liquid filled him as if he were some an obscene vase in the instant before it aetherized, a further humiliation that he felt all the more keenly as the healing magic flowed through his body, its warmth spreading from his core out to the tips of his fingers and toes.

He felt his face heal, his nose un-swelling to permit easy breathing again; everything torn and wrong inside him knit back into normal. All except the opening, held wide through the healing, so when Regis' fingers were finally – _finally_ – pulled free, Ignis was horrified anew at how his body seemed to accept this openness. Would Ignis be stretched like this for the rest of his life? How could he offer this body to Noct, or to anyone, so intimately and obscenely damaged? He curled his fingers tight to keep from reaching back and feeling the damage. He felt _loose_ , and empty, and as the healing finished, tendrils of Glacian cold reasserted themselves.

"There's your pretty little cunt," Regis said, tracing Ignis' ass with his fingers. Ignis made a hurt-animal noise; involuntary and unstoppable. The fingers retreated, and something else was pushed in.

His cock, Ignis realized, and was flooded with relief that this – that he'd been dreading, with Noct – didn't hurt at all. He was so shamed by this reaction that he felt tears leak free again. How could he be grateful for the smallest of mercies, that his final degradation was at least not a torture. (He could bear any agony, he told himself, and he _would_ , but not the ring again, please not, anything but that.)

"How does it feel?" Regis asked. Pushing in and pulling back, a rhythm that stuttered in a way suggesting he found this situation highly arousing.

Ignis refused to confess his thoughts, to lay himself bare. "It hurts."

Regis leaned forward, pressing his weight in, and Ignis yelped despite himself. "If my son wishes to fuck you, you'll let him. So long as his dalliance doesn't lead to gossip or unfortunate pictures in the press, of course. I rely on your discretion. And if _he_ hurts you?" Regis' fingers slid along Ignis' jawline; the cold of the ring against his skin seemed to throb with menace, the inhuman judgment of the dead. "You will bear his touch, as you will mine. In return, I'll gift you with as much magic and knowledge as you can bear. Make something worthy of you. Do we have an understanding?"

Ignis closed his eyes. "Yes, Sire."

The hand on his jaw slid down to curl around his throat, pulling his head back. "How does it feel?"

"Good," Ignis said, without hesitation. "Very good." He was shaking, and hoped Regis assumed the tremors were from desire.

"An improvement," Regis said, voice skimming the thin line between amusement and rage. "We'll make a whore of you yet."

 _You already have_ , Ignis thought. He breathed in, and out, and was grateful that he was allowed to keep breathing, though it was harder with that hand clenching tighter. Part of him still wanted to fight, to resist and run; as he sucked in each permitted breath, he forced that primal urge down. It would not serve his long-term survival, and he intended to survive. To see Noct on the throne, and the ring used by one who was worthy of it.

Regis cut off his air entirely as he came, stabbing hard into Ignis' struggling body so his seed went deep. When he finally left go, dropping Ignis and stepping back, Ignis' own hands shot to his throat protectively as he wheezed. He was sure he was bruised, inside as well as out, but he knew there would be no healing for this.

"I think you need to leave," Regis said.

Ignis dressed clumsily, fumbling with buttons, preferring speed to any attempt at looking put-together.

"What now?" Ignis asked. The lights in the room were too high, the darkness around the walls encroached; he felt as if he were watching the sun recede as he tumbled down a bottomless well.

Regis let a slow smile unfurl, and Ignis dug his fingertips into his palms. "Now you return to Noct. Make the boy happy – as his father, nothing would please me more. And as your king..." He leaned forward slightly, and the swirling darkness was there in his eyes, making Ignis feel naked and small and powerless again. "Periodically, I will require updates. Review the flexibility of your positions, as it were, on matters that come up."

Ignis hated that he needed to swallow nausea down hard before he could reply. "I understand, your Majesty."

"Complete your training with the Crownsguard," Regis added, like an afterthought. "Should I cease to be satisfied with your service to the Crown in this manner, you'll be daemon-fodder on the front lines."

"As you desire," Ignis said. He wished he had the stupid courage to tinge the words with bitterness and anger and defiance, but he was – he admitted to himself – too scared, and instead he sounded placating, eager, fawning. He hated himself for that, and for wanting nothing more right now than a swift retreat, to put doors and hallways and locks between himself and the king. He was terrified he might cry like a child; he couldn't bear giving Regis that satisfaction.

That terrible knowing smile sharpened, as if Regis saw Ignis' turmoil and found it useful. "Indeed." He let Ignis ponder that and all its implications: Lucis was, after all, governed and protected by the will and desire of the king. "Well. I imagine you have duties to be seeing to. Give me a kiss and be gone."

Ignis stood, nearly losing his balance with headrush. He didn't let himself remember ever having kissed anyone before as he pressed his mouth as dutifully to Regis' as if they were lovers, and let himself out with a bow. He wiped his mouth off in the corridor, not even caring if he were observed; he couldn't do otherwise.

He did not let himself run – though he wanted to, he doubted he was capable. Instead, he walked calmly, clutching his schoolbag too tightly in his free hand. 

He slipped into the elevator and tried not to look up at the camera above. He both knew someone was watching him and yet could not bear to be seen, with his dirtied face and wrinkled, soiled clothes. His underpants were gradually dampening, which he tried to ignore; that, and the unfounded fear that he was bleeding. There was, after all, a far more logical explanation for the dampness, and that made him... angry, he thought. _Furious_.

His mind kept replaying the evening's events in a loop, every moment up until that moment of clarity, when he'd understood what was being demanded. There must have been an opportunity that he'd missed, to deflect or derail the evening's progress. He'd missed something, overlooked an exploitable weakness. In his head he saw himself speaking with quiet, urgent dignity, and Regis stepping back. Perhaps letting him off with a warning.

 _A stern word_ , Ignis scoffed to himself. As comforting as self-delusion was, it was a falsehood. He'd been helpless; he'd been used; he would in future allow himself to be used as often as demanded. He accepted this, he told himself, getting out at the parking level and heading for his car.

He found strength in the belief that he'd learnt the evening's lesson well, but not the lesson Regis had wanted to teach. He would be _damned_ thrice over if he let Noct be crushed under the demands of the Lucii. Regis had ruled and held the wall for twenty years; the demands of his ancestors had, apparently, driven him mad.

The most unpleasant part of Ignis' new duties, he decided, was that he would have to lie to Noct. Noct loved his father, despite their fights. Ignis hated to think of his King as twisted by pettiness, but – he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, breathing out regret, sadness – why would he have done something like this, if not because he was blinded by envy and anger that Noct had chosen to love someone else, and in a far less complicated way?

Ignis would become stronger. Useful to Noct. He would not, he vowed, let anyone devour Noct alive: not the Lucii, not the King. They'd have to go through him first.

He didn't know how he was going to bear Noct's touch without finding it repugnant. He'd have to kiss Noct, he supposed, tomorrow; Noct enjoyed kissing. Ignis supposed he could finally let Noct do whatever he wanted with him. Better to get it over with, perhaps.

Before, he'd worried about how to be honest with Noct and not hurt him with his ambivalence. Fortunately, that was a moot point now.

 _It's good_ , he imagined telling Noct. _I like that – do that again._ It wasn't a huge leap of imagination to hear himself saying, _I love you, too._

Noct would be happy, and Ignis would protect him, and that was all that mattered, in the end.


End file.
